


Apple of Discord

by shefrommo



Series: I'm no longer in Creative Writing classes, so I can post these now [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, I am in fact aware that my characters are a little one-dimensional, My experiment on both how many Greek mythology references I can squeeze in, Originally written on 10/23/19, Written for Creative Writing class, and whether or not I can write a truly vile protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shefrommo/pseuds/shefrommo
Summary: The Champion sets out on his quest to defeat Death, at the behest of his patron god Justice.  On the other hand, Life fumes inside her glorious garden, which she cannot leave.
Relationships: Bas & Champion, Champion/Life (in his dreams), Death & Life & Balance | Justice
Series: I'm no longer in Creative Writing classes, so I can post these now [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800808
Kudos: 1





	1. The Champion and the Goddess

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy!

You’ve had those dreams all your life, haven’t you hero?

You dream of a beautiful garden caught eternally at twilight, with its thick, impassable hedges and rose bushes gilded in the dying daylight.

You dream of nine tall terraces made of polished bronze, a single stairwell to the next level hidden in a rose bower covered in climbing ivy and sweet pea tendrils.

The air is perpetually honey-sweet and perfumed. Rose petals drift to the ground from terraces higher up, flitting about in the wind before they fall. The breeze here is slight, easing the balmy heat.

You dream of paths paved in naught but soft grass, the trimmed bushes forever threatening to overflow and block off another road to the tallest part of the garden.

Perhaps that’s where the dead ends of the maze come from, perhaps it was once a labyrinth and beyond the chokingly thick shrubbery are more paths. It’s hard to know. The Garden of the Hesperides is not meant to be traversed.

Nine marble statues sit at the mouth of each passageway to the next terrace, women all of them, clad in exquisitely carved chitons and still-living ivy tiaras. They each hold a lyre, their music the only song this place knows.

At the center of the ninth and highest tier sits a small grove of apple trees, ringed around a pond. Each one bears golden Apples. I’m sure you’ve dreamt of these, the final signs of your conquest, your reward for services rendered. The famed golden Apples of Immortality guarded by the eternally young and beautiful goddess of Life.

In your dreams, I sit in the center of the Garden of the Hesperides, sometimes perched on my bench and partaking in some maidenly art, sometimes dancing about the glade to the music. Sometimes you imagine me eating my Apples, sometimes you imagine me in the pond. I’m sure that my state of dress in your dreams is entirely up to your whims.

I’m sure that you never dream of my brother sleeping on the bench while I stomp about in my Garden, trimming the hedges and digging holes to plant seeds in. I’m sure that you’ve never so much as thought of me in the mud, in the muck, hauling around great sacks of mulch and buckets of water big enough to drown in.

What do you think I do all day, hero? Do you think me some Homeric maiden, sitting placidly and weaving tapestries ceaselessly? Do you fancy that I have handmaidens to care for my Garden and follow me to rivers and aqueducts that don’t exist here, all so that you can arrive dramatically and have them flee in terror while I behold you?

My pond reflects all that I represent. I am Life, and in my pool, I see the lives of everyone everywhere. From birth to death, I can scry anyone’s life story in the depths, no matter how long it’s been since the events I watch have happened.

I have watched you for years, even before you realized that you were my brother’s Champion. I know what you think will come of your trials. You want a bite of my Apples, you want me as your bride. And you are coming here at last to claim both.

I peer once more into my pond. You are taking your sweet time to arrive at the ninth tier, and as I await your arrival at my glen, I take to my new favorite pastime—watching your journey.

***

I’ve had these dreams all my life.

I’m in a beautiful terraced garden, always at dusk, and statues of women guard the stairwells to the next tier. I walk up the stairways, and the only thing the statues do is play their lyres. I suppose the music is pleasant enough.

I’m far more concerned with the treasure at the top.

At the highest point of the ninth tier is a hill. And on it is a grove of trees. Each one holds round golden fruit—apples all of them, and perfectly ripe. Inside the rings of apple trees is a pool of water, with a scarlet-cushioned bench next to it.

And there’s a maiden. Always, there’s a maiden. She’s lovely, all blood-bright hair two shades too red to be human, and eyes like new grass springing up.

I’d never seen her in my waking life, which was such a shame, because I know that she’d be the loveliest wife in the world.

I was an avid fan of the old legends. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. The Argonautica. All sorts of tales of heroism in the age of the old gods, back when the Triumvirate weren’t the only ones remaining.

People used to tell me to get my head out of the clouds. Why would I want to? Adventures were so much more interesting, and just because oracles don’t grow on trees and the quests they sometimes hand out are even rarer doesn’t mean that I can’t hope.

And my patience paid off.

Eventually an oracle came by and gave me the news I’d always hoped for. I was destined to be a hero, was the chosen Champion of the gods. The oracle, already ancient and dying, passed away before he could tell me who it was that picked me and what my quest is.

That’s okay though, because I figured it out. A Champion of the gods hasn’t been chosen in centuries, not since the Industrial Revolution at least. For me to be chosen now—clearly there’s something huge going on. And I know just what it is.

Nobody ever wanted the old gods to disappear. And yeah sure, everyone says that they just up and vanished one day, leaving behind the Triumvirate—Life, Death, and Justice—as the only gods. But gods don’t just vanish like that. Zeus killed Kronos. Kronos killed Ouranos.

It seems pretty clear to me what happened.

Divine war is something that should be avoided at all costs, so of course, when Death killed Zeus and the other gods, Justice couldn’t get, well, justice for their deaths without risking a whole bunch of human lives.

But now that’s all about to change. I’m here and I will be the greatest hero ever, even surpassing Hercules. Even Achilles. I just need a sword.

And I know just where to get one.

The Triumvirate all have homes, and the location of these homes are well-known. The Garden of the Hesperides, the home to Life, is up on Mount Marfach. Nebula Waypoint, home to Justice, is deep underwater in the Liber Lake. The Fields of Asphodel are located in the cave-like basin of the nearby Lethe Mountain.

The Garden and the Station are only accessible to the Champion, but the Fields are accessible to anyone, and serve as a common ground on which to mourn.

It’s only a few hours’ bus ride over to the Fields, but it’s dark when I arrive. No surprise there, since the Fields are always stuck at midnight. You could get there, and have a watch that says its noon, and the full moon would still be the brightest thing in the sky.

The landscape is dreary here. Dark gray stone crunches underfoot, and here and there, some sort of white flower sprouts. Probably asphodel, considering the name of the place. On the far side of the basin, a waterfall thunders down, white mist obscuring the edges of the little lake.

Most of the ground is rocky and uneven, and calling this place a field seems like a pretty big misnomer. Gravestones pop up every so often, the names worn away by time and the water. I don’t have anyone I’m visiting, so I hurry past all the ones I see, searching for the oldest graves, the ones with swords still planted in front of them. They’re probably all rusted by now, but fencing is still taught at knight schools, so blacksmiths do routine maintenance on school stock, and getting a blacksmith to check out a sword from here is way cheaper than buying a new one.

I don’t find a sword right away, but after wandering past several people, all of whom give me dirty looks for all the noise I’m making, I strike gold.

Or, rather, I happen across a kid crouched in front of a cracked and half-crumbled grave, carefully rubbing a whetstone across the blade. I yank on his shoulder to get his attention, not wanting him to up and steal my sword.

He yelps and falls on his butt, half scuttling away from me in fright. He’s much taller than I expected, skeletally thin and gangly, with hair the color of black corpse-rot and eyes green like poison, like acid in your veins. There’s something vaguely eerie about him, but I chalk it up to the atmosphere and how pale he is. Kid looks like he hasn’t gone out into broad daylight in about a century.

“That sword is mine.” I tell him bluntly, gesturing to my new weapon. “I’m on a quest and I need a weapon.”

The kid swallows weakly and nods. “Okay. I was asked by an elderly oracle to clean it and uh, get it fixed up.” His voice is squeakier than I was expecting.

“Oh.” I blink and rock back on my heels a little. I hadn’t even noticed I was looming forwards, but as soon as I lean away from him, his shoulders relax some. I must have frightened him. “Well that’s lucky.” I consider my options, peering at the guy as he fidgets nervously on the ground.

Finally, I come to a decision. “By get it fixed up, do you mean take it to a blacksmith or fix it up here and now?”

“Uh, blacksmith?” He looks absolutely bewildered by my question. “How would I fix it here?” He gestures to the basin as a whole and the waterfall in general. I cede the point.

“You’re coming with me. You can pay for the sword’s upkeep and stuff, since apparently, you’re my new sidekick or something. Squire! That’s the word I was looking for. You’re my squire now. Congrats on getting a free pass into a quest.” I hold out my hand and he stares at it in something that looks a lot like alarm.

“You can call me the Champion.” I inform him proudly. “I haven’t come up with a suitably heroic name yet, because Jim is not what I’m going down in history as. What’s your name?”

There’s a long pause as he looks at me and the sword and behind him, like he’s trying to figure out how to escape. Unfortunately for him, we’re up against a corner and he’d have to slither past me to get free. I’m not about to let my new squire go free.

He seems to come to that conclusion to and doesn’t fight me any further. “…I’m Bás,” he finally mumbles. He doesn’t take my hand to get up.

“Yeah, well, you clearly don’t have a voice like that.” I inform him cheerfully. “You are way too squeaky to live up to your name.”

He winces and as I drag him and the sword to the bus stop, I soon figure out that that’s just how he is. He’s tall but always cringing and shrinking down into himself. That’s going to be a problem on my quest. A shrinking violet of a squire would be detrimental to me, so we’re going to fix that.

“Hey, do you think that swamp is still filled with ogres? We should check it out, see if it is. It’d make a great first task to complete.” I muse out loud, and Bás flinches away from me in horror.

“No! The sword is still broken!” he nearly shrieks in response.

I stare at him. So do several other passengers. And the bus driver, through his rear-view mirror. “No…” I say slowly. “Obviously not right now. We’ll do it later, when it’s been fixed.”

Bás slumps in relief. “Oh. Okay.”

***

You once were so sweet, a young child with dreams too big for your body. You loved all the stories of old, all the myths and legends that go untold so often now. Is that why you were so eager to claim the title of hero? So very eager to be the Champion of the gods? So quick to take up a sword and set off for adventure?

They say that all stories start for want of a nail, and was yours that you talked to the old oracle before she died? Such a near miss, your story was then, if that was truly the case.

I stir my fingers in the pool, feeling the balmy water run cooler the deeper I dip my hand in. Behind me, my brother yawns, and turns over onto his side. I don’t need to look to see that he’s awake at last as his hand reaches out to tug at my hair.

“Your hair is so long and knotted,” he sighs, and sits up to untangle the knots. “Do you ever brush this, sister? All this time in front of your pond, all this time pruning your Garden, and you never think to touch your hair?”

“Why should I pretty myself?” I retort, “I see nobody worth dressing up for here, save for my pet and my brothers, none of whom deserve such finery. And one visitor, who’s so hyped to see his pretty bride that I could prance about in mud and muck and stink of fresh mulch and he would rejoice all the same.”

All that earns me is a laugh. “How cruel. And he’s so eager to see you, too. Are you going to break his heart, my lovely, lethal lady of Life?” 

I shrug. “Perhaps.” I tip my head back, meeting Balance’s eyes—green like new leaves unfurling in spring, half hidden under sleep-messy curls the color of decaying leaf litter. “Do you think that the little hero deserves a kind welcome or a boot to the rear?”

Balance’s smile lights his face up. It’s unsurprising, how much younger he looks when he beams like that—for all that I’m the youngest, I’ve always thought that when Death and Balance look eons younger than me when they’re happy. They both have smiles like stars gone supernova.

“Perhaps.” Balance mimics my shrug, my tone from earlier. His smile turns wicked, and I’m reminded all over again that he’s the midway point between me and Death, the perfect sum of all our best parts. “He hadn’t knocked at all, when he first came in. Barging in here like that, getting your Muses all worked up when he charges through their bowers, waking Ladon without so much as a by-your-leave…why, the only thing ruder than all that he hasn’t done so far is rumple your roses, and I’d wager just about anything that the only reason he hasn’t is because your rose bushes are literally impervious to anything but your shears. Hacking and slashing at the bushes aren’t going to get him anywhere in your maze.”

I snicker. What an amusing image that makes—the lauded hero, the Champion of the ages, finally meets his match in a couple hedges that can’t be cut by mortal metals. Oh, how he must have flailed when he realized that.

Another tug to my hair gets my attention, as Balance goes back to untangling my hair. “How far along is he?” he asks, sounding only mildly interested in the answer.

I glance back into my scrying pool, swiping a rose petal back out of the way of the image. “Only halfway through the fourth tier, and on the opposite end of the maze from the staircase at that. I’ve been watching his past exploits while I await him, do you want to watch as well?”

Balance hums, carefully picking at a large snarl. “I’ll listen, but I’m afraid if I take my eyes off your hair one more time, it’s going to tie itself into even worse knots than what I’ve already undone. Your hair is a lovely living thing with a mind of its own, I swear.”

I flick the water again, letting the hero running pell-mell through the maze fall away in favor of a different scene. “Well, it is my hair. What else do you expect from it?”

***

We come eventually, after much trial and error, Hygeia. It’s a pretty place, not nearly so much as the Garden of the Hesperides, as I’ve found out is the place I’ve been dreaming of is called.

I’ve dragged Bás through all sorts of training. He resisted me at the ogre camp, which admittedly did not go nearly as well as I’d hoped, and we were forced to retreat. Not without killing a couple of runts though! It didn’t fix his aversion to fighting, and he cried for the ogre runts, just because they were dead and smaller than most ogres.

I gave him a stick and had him practice swinging it like a sword. He didn’t even try. I told him that we were sparring and that I would hit him if he didn’t fight back and he climbed a tree and hid in it for two and a half hours. I even tried making him watch scary movies with lots of character death in them and he whimpered the whole time. He’s got to be the most useless squire in the world!

So I decided that we’re going to Hygeia. I’ve heard that the old king of Hygeia is dead and was replaced by a Sorcerer King. Since most magic involves sacrifice of some sort, likely human sacrifice, we can liberate the kingdom and remove the Sorcerer King from power in one fell swoop.

It’ll be easy. I have my trusty sword, Bás who on second thought will probably run away and will need to be dragged there, and of course, whatever gifts I’ve been granted by Justice in return for helping him with this task. I don’t know what they are yet, but that’s why trial by fire is a thing.

This will be the perfect opportunity to do my first heroic thing. I explain my plan to Bás, who stares at me like he thinks I’m insane. It’s a look I get often from him, along with blind-stinking terror, so I ignore it.

Before I can pull him into the palace courtyard, he yanks me to a stop, and hauls me off to the side of the road. I’m a little surprised by the man-handling. Bás doesn’t look like he should be that strong, but I guess that’s because he’s still so stick-thin and gangly.

“Are you insane?” Unusually enough, Bás’ voice is sharp and pitched low, rather than the near-painfully high-pitched squeak I’m used to.

I frown at him. “Your voice is a lot lower than I was expecting. Where did your squeak go? Have you been deliberately using that gods-awful pitch this whole time? Why would you ever subject someone to that, never mind for as long as I’ve known you.”

Bás ignores my question. “You can’t attack the king. Never mind literally everything else wrong with your plan, the guards won’t let you anywhere near him even without a sword.”

“That’s why you’re going to distract them.” I wave a hand about, trying to illustrate my plan with erratic hand gestures. “Like in the Argonautica, when Jason stole the Golden Fleece from the snake holding it captive, you’re going to feed the guards a potion that will put them in a deep sleep—”

Bás doesn’t let me finish. “There are no potions that do that. Potions are a myth, and the ones Medea used even more so. I wouldn’t know how to make them anyway. And the rest of your idea is stupid, too. There’s no way you can get into the palace without tripping some kind of trap—haven’t you heard the stories? Would be assassins trying to get in are teleported into the Liber River to drown?”  
He shook his head. “Anyway, the Sorcerer King, as you insist on naming him, is the previous king’s firstborn child. He didn’t conquer the country, he inherited it. You can’t attack the rightful ruler of a country, especially when he’s done nothing wrong.”

I scowl at him. Why does he always have to be such a stick in the mud? What an annoying, stupid squire I have. “He’s a magic user. Magic always involves sacrifice, and magic strong enough to teleport someone somewhere a few hundred miles down the road has to involve a major sacrifice, like human sacrifice kind of major. That’s why we have to defeat him—he’s probably killing his own citizens to power it! He probably killed the old king just to jumpstart it!”

“The old king died of a heart attack. He was in his eighties. It was in the news.” Bás said slowly, like he thought I needed it explained in small words.

“That was the cover story. Of course, the new tyrannical king wouldn’t want anyone to know that he killed the old king.”

“I can’t believe I’m indulging your insane troll logic. Why would he kill his own father?” Bás kneads his temples with a fist, looking for all the world like he’s getting a headache.

“That’s all part of the cover story. He’s killed the rightful prince and taken his place so that nobody will question his right to rule. Magic that takes human sacrifice could make him look like the dead prince easily.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding a lot. I mean, firstly, magic doesn’t work like that, the sacrifice thing is just an urban legend. Second, if you think that the Crown Princess couldn’t recognize her own dad, you’ve got to be delusional. Third, your conspiracy theories don’t change the fact that you can’t get into the palace with malicious intent, so waltzing in there with a sword is out of the question.”

“No.” He held up a hand before I could protest and reexplain my plan, which he clearly needed to hear. “I’m not helping you. I will catch a bus to the Liber River and meet up with you there when you inevitably get drop-kicked out the palace doors by magic. I refuse to be party to treason.”

Bás turned around and marched away, spine straight and shoulders tense like he thinks I’m going to drag him in there. Well, fine. If he doesn’t want any of the glory, I won’t share.

I’m going to be the hero who defeats a god. I don’t know why anyone would turn down a free pass to fame like that, especially considering what kind of rewards we could milk from defeating Death, but if he doesn’t want any glory then I’ll just take all the credit for myself.

I’m going to go down in history, like Jason and the Golden Fleece. Like Peleus of the Argonauts, who married a goddess and fathered Achilles with her. Like Theseus, who killed the Minotaur.

Considering who haunts my dreams, I already know who my helper and wife will be. Zeus gave Hercules Hebe’s hand in marriage for his labors. I’m sure that Life’s hand in marriage is a suitable reward for avenging the old gods. And her powers would be a lovely complement to my skills.

I approach the palace courtyard gates, confident that I will be the first to make it through and kill the Sorcerer King. As I step over the threshold, the air hums and buzzes, like cicadas on a hot summer night. Speaking of heat, it’s hot all of the sudden.

There’s a flash of light, a weightless drop, and then—biting cold.

It’s so cold! I thrash and then my head pops up out of the water of the Liber River. I gasp for breath, choking on silty river water as a hand leans down grabs my flailing arm.

A guy in the same uniform as the palace gate guards stares down at me, unimpressed. “I’m going to need to talk to you about just what you think you’re doing.”

I scowl up at him but let myself be dragged ashore before I can be washed downriver. I’m going to have to find another way in.

***

“I’ll admit, I haven’t been watching him all that closely,” Balance murmurs, “but, really, he compares himself to Jason, and you to Medea, and then refuses all magical help? I didn’t realize he was so arrogant. Who does he think he is—Hercules? Atlas, who held the world upon his shoulders with strength alone? Since when has a human ever defeated a god without the help of a god or some magic? Since when has a human ever even posed a challenge to a god without someone else’s favor?”

I smile, lean back a little into my brother’s touch. “He is an arrogant one, isn’t he? So self-assured, so egotistical. So bloody in his rage, if he could ever get to a battlefield. He thinks he’s like Achilles—great in battle, but all his ego is hot air. There’s no substance to it, and he’s never going to get anywhere in the end.”

Balance finishes untangling my hair, and idly plucks at the strands for a moment. “I always wondered what makes men seek glory. Why be a hero, when you know that all their tales end in tragedy?”

“Why indeed? I suppose the lure of glory, of going down in history like Odysseus against the Cyclops, is enough for some men with nothing better to do with their lives.” My smile fades as I peer down into the pond again. 

Balance’s fingers still in my hair. “Sister?” he ventures, warily. “Is there something wrong?”

“Jason and Medea. Peleus and Thetis. Theseus and Ariadne.” I muse on the legends you choose to compare us to for a moment, and then turn back to my worried sibling. “What a strange set of tales to reference.”

My brother frowns at me still, so I snatch at the grass and watch as the blades transform into flowers. Spider lilies and asphodel and sweet apple blossoms, and stinging nettle for protection. “If you’re so worried with my appearance, you can make me a flower crown. Go on, gussy me up. I thought you wanted me to look nice.”

He continues to look concerned, but obediently takes my handful and begins to weave them together. I pointedly look to the pond again, so I won’t have to meet his gaze, as a rose petal drops into the still surface. The ripples shift the image in my scrying pool, and I go back to watching you flail across your journey. Ah yes, this part was my least favorite.

***

It’s been days, and I’m still stewing over my thwarted victory over the Sorcerer King. Bás had eventually rescued me from the guards and convinced them to let me go free. I’m not sure what he said to them that convinced them, since hours of trying to explain that I was the Champion of the gods and was on a quest was met with dismissal and disgust. It doesn’t matter though, because I was literally dragged further downriver, and Bás refused to let me so much as turn back in the direction of Hygeia.

We’ve been camping on the riverside for the last couple of days, and the only reason I haven’t taken Bás to task for bossing me around is because the Liber River eventually empties out into the Liber Lake, at the bottom of which is Justice’s home.

After I commune with my patron god, I’ll discipline my unruly squire. I’m sure that another round of sparring will teach him something, and I could always use the practice. Just because I was stopped from killing the Sorcerer King now doesn’t mean that I won’t be able to once I have my god’s counsel.

It will be like when Odysseus defeated the witch Circe—Hermes gave him a piece of wisdom and advice, and Odysseus defeated the witch at once after he received it. Easy-peasy. I just have to go diving for advice this time.

Liber Lake is ugly to look at, all brown river water and mud. I can still taste the silt on the back of my tongue from my dip in the river a few days ago. Diving in this won’t be fun, but it is necessary.  
I tell Bás to sit and wait while I talk to Justice, and he just stares at me with dull eyes. I can tell that he doesn’t believe I’ll meet my patron god just by the look on his face, but I’ll show him.

I’m the Champion after all. There’s nothing I can’t do eventually.

Diving into the muck isn’t fun at all, and it takes three tries before I find the right place into Nebula Waypoint, but once I do, it’s beautiful.

Nebula Waypoint is a train station. The floor is spotless white marble, and the walls are the same, until about halfway up, where they become dark wood instead. Massive arches, like something out of a famous cathedral, stretch impossibly high into the air. Some sixty feet in the air, a second floor becomes visible, though it rings the edge of the walls and leaves the center of the room open clear to the ceiling. Calling it a balcony would not do it justice; walls enclose it, and it is far too wide to be called a hallway.

Here, too, arches decorate the walls, these ones instead massive windows made of stained glass. There are no mosaic pictures or stories to be seen in these windows. They are merely there to provide residents of the second floor a way to peer down at those on the floor below them. The colors of these makeshift windows are a gradient of blues to pinks and reds and back again, a full rainbow in each on.

The bottom floor is one massive open-air room. Here and there can be seen elegant white tables and chairs, set up as though to allow visitors to stop and sit for a while. Along the left side ran a hallway that leads to the railways—an endless track of marble platforms and golden rails for trains to arrive upon, should any ever come by. The right wall is solid stone, and there are no passageways, secret or otherwise, to other places. Benches and tables line it, and here and there are abandoned kiosks.

Massive double doors enclose one end, but though logic dictated that this is the exit to the outside world, this entrance remains eternally shut. The granite surface is carved and inlaid with whirls of gold, and the handles are shaped like treble clefs. At the far end of the room extends a long granite wall, which boasts no decoration whatsoever.

Occasionally, as I cross the length of the atrium, long golden bridges cross the width of it overhead. They extend from one side of the hall to the other, their entrances hidden behind the smallest stained-glass windows; these ones about as large as a door. Upon opening the door and stepping out, sprawls a large platform, also made of sturdy swirls of colored glass. Staircases with intricate patterns in the gilded guardrails lead up to similar hidden entrances on the third and fourth floors.

There are no stairs from the ground floor to the upper floors. 

On the higher floors, the walls are all made of dark wood, and the carpet is navy blue and plush, as though it were brand new and feet had never stepped upon it. Here, nooks lined with padded benches are set into the spaces between the glass arches. Despite the ceiling of each floor being vaulted, the floor of the next one is inexplicably level.

Lining the outer wall and often directly across from the glass arches, are doors leading to a variety of different rooms. Some are music rooms and instruments are strewn about, waiting to be used. Other rooms are clearly lounges, leather couches arranged around coffee tables, and still other rooms are just bookshelves, set directly into the walls. Some rooms boast plants, other rooms paintings, a spare few both. Somewhere on the second floor is a large bedroom, the sheets mussed and half on the ground. All of these rooms have stained glass windows peering out into the world beyond—but the light streaming through is too bright and nothing can ever be gleaned from the windows.

Sweet music can be faintly heard throughout the train station, although there are no speakers. I follow the sound, which leads me to the center of the first floor, where the core of Nebula Waypoint sits. Presumably this is where I will meet Justice.

The floor dips subtly before reaching a series of terraced steps, all leading downwards. Here and there old structures stand out, a framework to nowhere.

Again, glittering bridges descend from the other floors, but these ones connect to the skeleton of knocked-out-passages and walls. Dark gray pillars rise, the tops crumbled away but for where obsidian platforms are suspended in mid-air. Most have only a corner touching the pillars and are outside the worn gothic architecture.

As the bridges approach these freestanding plazas, the bright colors of the steps and the gold of the railings dull and transform. What were once gold and platinum curls become tarnished silver threaded around thorny wrought-iron bars. The stained-glass steps bleed slowly into black spotted with bits of gold, then silver, then nothing—as though the stars in the sky are slowly winking out.  
Reaching the center of the gothic section of the station is akin to stepping foot into the Fields of Asphodel again from the lush mountain life surrounding the basin. The blindingly white marble is slowly replaced with the same granite as the pillars, and every step—no matter how lightly tread—echoes ominously in the otherwise still air.

Under the click of my footsteps, the music swells. As I descend the final steps of the coldest section, I see a change towards lighter stone. Marble makes a reappearance, and a twisting statue stands in the center of the station’s innermost plaza. Behind it winds the largest of the gilded staircases—and the only one to stretch down to the ground floor. In front of the statue is a stage, and before that is an amphitheater, the steps and makeshift seats of which descend to reach the core. On it, a lyre rests, and though it has no visible player, the strings vibrate still.

In the higher floors, peering up nets the viewer a look at the vaulted ceiling, all made of wood. From the ground floor, one can see a glass ceiling that shimmers strangely. It is always noon here, the sun shining directly overhead.

Here in the core of Nebula Waypoint, the reason behind the name becomes clear. Turning to look at the ceiling reveals that the entire train station is underwater, thus explaining the feeling of the air eddying in the halls, the pervasive warmth, and the strange teal-blue tint that can be seen during particularly strong shifts.

Stars in all colors and sizes drift throughout the station, giving the place a whimsical feel. It almost seems at times that stars are falling around me, comets streaking by, only to veer out of the way of my reaching hands and skyrocketing back up to drift near the bridges.

The gothic section alone feels like cold, dead water, rendering each motion slow and exhaustive. It has the fewest stars floating about inside its limits—but each of these ones gives off a subtle hint of malice, some lizard instinct warning me that death and misery can catch me should I be so foolish as to touch these stars. The existence of this section gives me a feeling of dread.

Between the light passing though the stained-glass windows and the light from the stars, the water tints in such a way that it almost seems to be a nebula, a stardust cloud winding playfully around me.  
There’s just one problem with Nebula Waypoint: Justice is nowhere to be found. I stop dead in the middle of the stage. After turning around helplessly in circles, trying to spot him, hoping he’s hiding behind something, anything, I call out for him. There’s no answer.

I start running. He’s not anywhere in the ground floor atrium. I climb the sole staircase I can reach and check the second floor. He’s not there. He’s not anywhere. My steps slow on one of the stained-glass platforms on the fourth floor. I stare down at the obsidian platforms below me.

That cold, dead feeling to the water, the dread, the gothic architectural shift…there’s only one conclusion to be drawn from this. Death has been here. And he’s taken Justice.

I turn to leave, rushing downstairs again, back to the grand staircase to the bottom floor, and then across the atrium to where I started.

The doors there aren’t chained shut, but I can’t get them to open. I pull uselessly at them, then go to the train tracks. No train ever comes to the Station, so it should be safe to walk along the tracks. On the platform, the tracks go past. This is only one stop on a track, and the tunnel extends both directions. To my left, the tunnel is dark. To the right, there is a faint light. I follow them to the only light in the tunnel, and after what feels like forever, I gag on silty water. I must be getting close to the surface of Liber Lake.

When I surface, Bás appears to be sleeping on the lakeshore. He’s curled next to my sword and I practically charge him. He wakes with a shriek the instant I touch him with my cold wet hands.

“Bás!” My voice breaks. I cough and try again. “Bás! Get up! We have a problem! Justice is missing. Death must have come to kill him or take him somewhere. I’ll bet he’s back at the Fields of Asphodel.”

Bás stares at me. “How do you know that?” he asks, utterly bewildered. His voice is squeaky again.

“The water there felt cold and dead.” I explain waving a hand dismissively. Why does he need to question everything? Can’t my word ever be enough for him? He’s my squire, his job is to follow me and do as I say.

“I meant, how do you know that Death will be at the Fields?”

“Because—” I stop short. Death is rarely at the Fields, despite it nominally being his home. How do I know that he’s there? He wasn’t when I was there getting my sword, or I would have defeated him right there and then. “Good point,” I say grudgingly. “New plan, then. We go to the Garden of the Hesperides and ask Life for her aid. She’ll know where her brothers are, and if I need to rescue or avenge Justice.”  
I pause and take a moment to remember Life in most recent dream. All that long, wavy hair and the pretty dress, and the—Bás coughs. I snap back to the present and blink at him.

“We’re going to the Garden?” he sounds skeptical. “Do you have any idea how far away that is? It’ll take weeks. Besides, it’s worth noting that death is always the one described as peaceful eternal rest. Between the three of them, it’s Life who is the lady of war, the embodiment of the fight to survive.”

I frown at him. “If you’re going to chicken out again, I’m going to leave you behind. This is important. Try to be at least a little heroic, will you? You’re accompanying a hero on a quest, you should be excited. And that part about Life is just ridiculous. Who describes a goddess of Life as combative?”

Bás sighs, but he doesn’t argue as I grab my clothes and sword.

***

You seemed to have lost all your manners when you met that oracle. First you barge into the Fields of Asphodel, knowing that it’s the great graveyard for everyone to mourn in, then do the same in Nebula Waypoint to force a meeting between you and Balance.

You can’t even be bothered to remember that Justice isn’t his name. You humans like to pretend that we are benevolent to you and your causes. When the old gods died and it was only my brothers and I left behind, your kind looked at my eldest brother and understood that he is Death. Your kind looked at me and understood that I am Life. Your kind looked at the middleborn of us three and decided that because one of us had to care about you, it ought to be him and renamed him Justice. Order. Peace.

Keep your titles to yourself and stop trying to demand that Balance uphold roles that are not his and which he does not want to have. For that matter, keep your demands to yourself period and stop barging into places, unwanted.

You are, I note irritably, nearly to the eighth tier. If you can duck past the Muse, you will be only a single terrace away from me. How wonderful. I contemplate having the Muse let you past it so that I can berate you myself.

Before I can, though, Balance plops the flower crown on my head. “That, dear sister, is the last time that I weave a flower crown with stinging nettle in it,” he complains. I reach up to steady the crown, and twist around to see him rubbing his hands gingerly. Pinpricks of golden ichor bead his palms.

“Brother!” I protest, already reaching for his hands the moment I spot the blood. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were bleeding?” I fret over his injuries, but there’s not much to be done about them—they’re already healing and a touch of magic and will doesn’t do more than close them half a second faster.

Balance shrugs at me. “You wanted a crown and were upset about something. I figured a bit of blood wasn’t that bad, not when the result would cheer you up.”

“You could have left out the nettle! Just the blossoms would have been good enough.” My flower crown slips down my head, and I reach up to adjust it, absently wincing when I prick myself on the nettle.  
Balance catches my wince and sits back on his hands. Somewhere in the interim, while I watched your invasion, he’s come to sit next to me on the ground. “I suppose that would’ve been the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it? Since even you’ve gone and pricked yourself on the nettle. Why do people even say that it’s for protection anyway, when all it does is hurt anyone who touches it?”

“Because it stings, that’s why. What good is a sword that can’t cut? A shield that can’t block a blow? Cover yourself in the accursed plant and I assure you that, short of a fire spell, no one will touch you to harm you.”

“You forget the part where you’ll be in a great deal of pain for being covered in nettle. I’m sure that nobody will attack you, since they won’t need to. They can sit back and laugh at you while you shriek and writhe in self-inflicted misery.”

I scoffed at that and turned away from him, rather than admit that he had a point. Just because he was right didn’t mean I had to acknowledge that. I could see him grinning that starburst-bright smile out of the corner of my eye and reached over to slap at his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!”

He raised hands in defense, still beaming. “I didn’t say anything!” he insisted, looking far too childishly delighted by my defensiveness.

I huff again and get to my feet, intending to vanish into the depths of my own home. But at that moment, discordant music rings from the direction of the staircase, and around the grove, Ladon lifts his head.

My pretty, precious, poisonous pet usually sleeps wound around my glen, protecting it from whatever intruders get past my Muses. Ladon is the best defense of my Apples—what few intruders make it this far usually have the sense to flee at the sight of a dragon, no matter how flightless he is. And of course, he’s always hungry and always up for a chase. Rarely does anyone leave my Garden unscathed.  
Balance stands up as well, hovering at my side nervously. “Do you want me to leave? Or should I stay?”

The pool water clears, turning a pale blue like the ocean. Neither of us look at it, but under the rose petals dotting its surface, stars swirl around glass bridges.

I spare a glance for my brother as I press a hand to Ladon’s head. “Do whatever you want. The Champion invaded your home too, so if you want to watch, that’s fine with me. If you don’t, well, you know how to get back to your Station.”

Ladon grumbles beneath my hand, butting his head against my side as he waits for orders. I smile, chilly and angry. “Chase him here, Ladon, but don’t eat him.”

My pet whines in dismay, and I call one of my Apples down from the trees and feed it to him. My poor baby must be starving, to protest my refusal to let him dine on the hero. Then I let Ladon go, watching as he lumbers to his feet and then leaps into the maze, shockingly fast for something so big.

Jason and Medea, you called us. Peleus and Thetis. Theseus and Ariadne.

I think that you might have misunderstood a little, when you spoke to that oracle. Yes, you are Champion of the gods. Yes, it is only Death and Balance and I left of all the pantheons.

But I did not choose you as my Champion.

Balance never chooses anyone to be his Champion.

Heroes’ stories always end in tragedy for a reason. You are Champion to Death. He watches you, encourages you, restrains you. He accompanies you on your march to your death.

Jason sailed to find the Golden Fleece, and Medea aided him in return for marrying her. Jason upheld his end of the bargain, and even had children with her. But at the end of the day, he abandoned her for a younger, prettier woman.

Peleus was an Argonaut like Jason. He fell in love at first sight with Thetis, a goddess, and she with him. They married and Thetis’ firstborn was Achilles. Nobody ever talks about Thetis without remembering her as Achilles’ mother, as Peleus’ wife.

Theseus sailed to Crete to kill the Minotaur, and Ariadne said that she’d help him if he took her home with him and married her. He agreed, and then ditched her on a solitary island to die. Only Dionysus’ arrival saved her, and he carried her to his home to be his wife.

***

I’ve lost Bás somewhere. The Muses hadn’t scared him off impossibly enough, and he’d kept up well enough through the mad flight through the lower tiers of the Garden. Once Ladon, the draconic guardian of the Apples of Immortality woke up and started chasing us, though, he’d vanished.

I’m vaguely concerned that he’s been eaten, but I’m a little more worried about the fact that my sword is stuck in a rose bush somewhere after I tried to stab Ladon and his tail launched it out of my grasp. My wrist is broken, and probably everything else in my hand. My breath is short, and my side is cramping. My everything is cramping.

I’m pretty sure that dragon breathes poison. It would explain why the world keeps spinning.

I turn another corner and spy my sword. It is lodged in a rose bush! I try to speed up so I can grab it, but Ladon takes that moment to snap at my heels and I feel the rush of air as his jaws close half an inch away from my Achilles heel. I jerk in shock, stumble, and the flightless dragon leaps over my head to land between me and my sword.

I can’t get past him. There’s a passage between me and him and as he turns to face me, I hurry into it. I lost Bás around the same time I lost my sword, so perhaps he ran down here while I was preoccupied with trying to fight. It’s worth a try anyway.

***

I listen to Ladon draw closer, your footsteps not yet audible, nor you visible. You are close, but not circling around in the right direction.

Balance has chosen to sit on my bench, stiff-backed and tense as he waits for you. Bás finds us first—of course he does. Our eldest brother already knew the way home. Death goes to sit with Balance, who leans into his shoulder and murmurs something to him. I don’t bother to listen, just continue my prowl around the outer rim of my grove, never quite stepping down the hill it rests upon.

Jason and Medea.

Here is the extent of your folly. You came here wanting a bite of the Apples of Discord. You came here wanting me to be your trophy wife.

I am not Medea. I am not a woman you can marry and discard at your leisure.

***

My trip into the passageway was a good idea. It hasn’t led me to any dead ends yet, and Ladon, best of all, is flagging. The stupid brute probably doesn’t get much exercise and is tiring already.

That would be better news if I wasn’t tiring already as well.

I turn another corner, cursing the black spots in my vision. I’m so close to Life, and surely once I see her and explain why I’m here, she’ll call off Ladon.

Why does the Garden, Life’s home, have guardians anyway? Neither of the other two do. Is it perhaps because of the Apples of Immortality? I could use a bite of one of those right now.

I turn another corner and know that today really is my lucky day. Just up ahead, the bushes end, and a clearing comes into view. There’s a hill with a grove of apple trees on it—a grove of Golden Apples trees. Standing next to a tree is a lovely woman with blood-bright hair and eyes like new grass sprouting. She’s gorgeous.

I slow to a walk unconsciously, and barely notice that Ladon has stopped in the passageway and makes no move to come closer.

***

Finally, we meet face to face for the first time. Behind me, my siblings go silent.

You step foot into the clearing, staring up in awe at me. Ladon slows to a halt behind you, puffing poison gas, and your face is pale from breathing it in. You don’t seem to notice.

How foolish. Perhaps you should have wondered why a goddess of Life would ever have such a deadly guard. Perhaps you should have listened when my brother warned you that Death is the one who is described as peaceful rest, and Life torment.

I am the embodiment of struggle—the fight to survive, to thrive, to continue existing. If there is any among us three, it is Death who represents peace. In contrast I am war. And I will show you why I am the sibling you do not cross. Why I am the only sibling whose home fights intruders, why my home is the only one with a guardian.

I am not Thetis. I am not a goddess you can reduce to a mere wife and mother in your origin story.

***

I try to straighten myself up a bit as I walk closer. I want to look good for our first meeting, and while this is hardly the best circumstances, it never hurts to try.

I clear my throat. “Hello, goddess of Life! I am the Champion your brother chose to defeat Death! I apologize for the invasion of your home, but I am in dire need of your assistance. Recently, I attempted to visit my patron god, Justice, in his home and found it empty. The water there was cold and dead, and I can only assume the worst.” I take a deep breath and hope this doesn’t send her into hysterics. I’m not sure that Ladon won’t charge me and kill me if I make her cry. “Death has captured Justice. I need you to help me find him, so that I know where Death is, and whether I should rescue or avenge my patron god.”

She does not move for a long moment. Then she straightens from her slouch against the trunk. “Come here.” Her voice is clear and sweet, but there’s a surprisingly hard bite of anger to it.

I come closer, unsure of why she wants me near.

***

I reach out and cradle your cheeks in my hands. You don’t resist. Do you think that I am going to give you my blessing? Do you think I’m going to kiss you?

Do you think I like you?

I am not Ariadne, though she is a better fit than the other two. If by some miracle you managed to take me away from my Garden without me killing you, another god would take me home.

***

She reaches out and cradles my face in her hands.

I’m surprised, then delighted. I’d always read of legends like this—Eros fires his arrow into the heart of the maiden, and she falls in love at first sight with the hero. Like Medea, loving Jason at one glimpse and then aiding him.

This is perfect! I didn’t realize it progressed to kissing so quickly in real life, but I must be more impressive than I feel right now.

I’m about to lean in for a kiss when searing pain starts in my temples and feet. I try to jerk away, but Life doesn’t let me move. Behind her, a boy with hair the brown of autumn leaves and eyes as green as new buds steps out from behind the trees, accompanied by—Bás.

What?

The pain progresses up my knees, over my hips and I lose feeling in everything south of my waistband. I had pressed my hands over Life’s shoulders for my kiss, and as the pain creeps over my shoulders, I’m horrified to see that my arms are turning into wood.

Life casually lets go of my head and pulls my arms into position, just in time for the transformation to reach my hands. They sprout leaves, and then blossom.

As first my throat, then my jaw, and finally the rest of my face succumb to the pain, I catch one last glimpse of round golden apples sprouting on my branches.

***

I step back and admire my new Apple tree. The golden fruit hang low and abundant. How beautiful they are. You’d never know that they used to be a person.

I have no Apples of Immortality to give anyone. Only Apples of Discord, and they will suffer to touch them. And I ensured that you did, for all the slights, small and large alike, that you gave my family.

For ignoring and belittling Death, as though you, a mortal, were his master and he, your slave.

For storming into Balance’s home and demanding a meeting, as though you deserve one.

For coming in here and thinking me your future wife.

For daring to think I would help you in your quest.

I am not Medea or Ariadne. I will not bathe my hands in the blood of my brother.


	2. Dead Man's Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is something just shy of an epilogue, but not quite an expansion on the original. Death has thoughts on the long journey his Champion took to his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this one as well!
> 
> Originally written on 12/12/19.

Death breathed out, watching his breath fog in the air. This part of the Fields of Asphodel was cold, bone-chilling and empty. The parts closer to the outer rim of the Fields were warmer, with visitors and mourners huddled around dull gravestones, but the innermost area, by the waterfall, was far colder. The water was icy enough to leave would-be swimmers dead from hypothermia before they even registered the chill.

Death sat in front of a grave, cracked and half-crumbled, worn down by time and the grip of the grim reaper himself. Death prodded at a slightly newer-looking section of stone, watching disinterestedly as it wore itself away, eroding under his touch. He’d been waiting for what felt like days for that Menace to arrive.

Earlier that day, Maya Reeds, the last descendant of Cassandra of Troy, had set the Menace on his journey. The Menace—an avid mythology fan, to no one’s surprise—had immediately decided he was the Champion of the gods and was chosen to become a great hero. He’d rushed off to “prepare for his grand quest,” leaving the still-dying Maya Reeds on his doorstep, though she was still alive and would have lived if the Menace had shown even half as much concern for another being’s life as anyone else would have. But no. The Menace was too in love with the idea of becoming another Hercules, another Jason of the Argonauts, or another invincible Achilles to stop and call an ambulance for a dying old woman.

And so, Death sat and waited in front of Maya’s grave, idly disintegrating the stone. She had been a great oracle—a sensible oracle, of course, because all the greatest oracles were the ones that had an ounce of common sense to them and didn’t tell anyone of their predictions.

Quests were more trouble than they were worth, really, hence why most governments outlawed them nowadays. Well, they were outlawed because certain heroes had a tendency to try and emulate fantasy role playing games, namely the plotline wherein the local king/queen/Archduke of Westphalia was secretly an evil sorcerer and needed to be killed. That was a popular one. Another favorite was hunting monsters of varying lethality—completely ignoring how important those same monsters were for local ecosystems, which explained why most monster-species were on the Protected/Endangered Species list—and yet another cliché was trying to take over the nonexistent Big Bad Boss Monster in the Alternate Dimension/Wicked Lair, which invariably causes problems because, as it turns out, going into someone’s house and beating them up for no good reason is illegal. It’s called breaking and entering and assault. And no, being the “hero” did not give anyone the right to break the law. This wasn’t the Middle Ages anymore.

Maya had been a wonderfully sensible oracle, nothing at all like her much-loathed grandmother Micha Hayes, who had spent most of her life loudly proclaiming the impending end of the world, screaming “Fire!” in crowded fast-food restaurants to get to the front of the line, and hovering around the Fields to try and weasel a date out of Death. Ironically the first oracle in Cassandra’s line to break her curse would be the one who used her gift to wreak havoc.

Maya, while she could have given prophecies to anyone else, had chosen to stay quiet about her gift. The only time she’d ever given a prophecy to someone was on her deathbed, and that wouldn’t have been her deathbed if the Menace had just called an ambulance. Of course, the Menace, being a menace and not a normal human being, went running off without a care in the world, leaving poor Maya to die. And he did so after she went through all that trouble to tell the Menace that if he went on this great journey he would die. Well, did it count as delivering the message if she hadn’t gotten the whole warning out because the Menace ran away first?

Death dropped the piece of rubble he’d been toying with, watching with dull eyes as it hit the ground. The Menace was taking his sweet time to arrive, and Death was excruciatingly bored. A talk with Maya’s ghost had assured him that the Menace would come searching for a sword, as all heroes wielded swords, of course, and the easiest place to get a free sword would be in the Fields, where the swords were relatively rare and always rusted over. It took a thought, a bare brush of power that made the air bitingly chilly for half a second, and the piece of rubble Death had been playing with transformed back into the rusted sword Death had selected for the Menace’s use.

Death didn’t particularly want to sit there waiting for the Menace, but things were swinging into motion, the great cogs of Fate turning once again, and someone had to babysit the Menace on his journey. Life was unable to leave her sanctuary because of the encroaching danger—Ladon, their precious poisonous pet dragon, needed her after all, far more than Death and Balance needed her to fight their battles for them. Of course, after what happened the last time Fate’s gears started turning, neither Death nor Life were willing to let Balance anywhere near the Menace. Which just left Death to watch the delusional wannabe hero.

Loud irreverent stomping made Death glance up and he ducked his head down again immediately. The Menace had arrived, and he didn’t need to see the ghoulish grin flickering across Death’s face. Finally. Death had been waiting for hours.

***

If Death didn’t already know that the Menace was insane, he would’ve been stunned.

The ogre camp had been heart wrenching, with all those dead pups, and not a single bit of remorse from the Menace. Just a couple swings of the sword from the human idiot, and complete obliviousness as to the ramifications of his actions. The adult ogres would be rightfully trying to avenge their children for months, and everyone in a hundred-mile radius of the camp would be both suspect and subject to the retaliation. 

The other behaviors— the scary movies Death was too-softhearted to watch without crying, and the attempted sword-fighting lessons that Death refused to participate in, because if he tried to fight the Menace, he would absolutely kill the moron and unfortunately, they still needed him alive for a little while longer—those Death could have tolerated.

However, the sheer loss of life that would result from the Menace trying to wipe out an endangered and highly dangerous species was horrifying. The fact that the Menace didn’t see anything wrong with his behavior was appalling. Atrocious. Absurd. Did he not have a shred of common sense in his head? Did he not care about all the people who would die because of his ill-thought out actions? What kind of hero doesn’t care about the people who would die because of their incompetence?

This though. This took the cake. Death stared flatly at the Menace, scarcely able to believe his ears. He wanted to what?

“Are you insane?” Death’s voice came out deep, pitched low with an incredulous sort of fury.

The Menace frowned. “Your voice is a lot lower than I was expecting. Where did your squeak go? Have you been deliberately using that gods-awful pitch this whole time? Why would you ever subject someone to that, never mind for as long as I’ve known you.”

Death ignored his statement—it clearly wasn’t relevant. “You can’t attack the king. Never mind literally everything else wrong with your plan, the guards won’t let you anywhere near him even without a sword.”

“That’s why you’re going to distract them.” The Menace flapped his hands around, trying to convey something with hand gestures. Too bad Death didn’t speak Interpretive Hand Flailing. “Like in the Argonautica, when Jason stole the Golden Fleece from the snake holding it captive, you’re going to feed the guards a potion that will put them in a deep sleep—”

That didn’t even make sense. The Menace was aware that those were just stories, right? Potions don’t exist, and they never have and—oh. Of course, the Menace was an idiot who didn’t know what he was talking about. Misconceptions like that abounded with people who had no magic potential—and the Menace couldn’t have any magic potential. That was the whole point of this journey. Death and his siblings had spent a very long time making sure that he had no magic potential, and never would again. They had to get justice for the dead somehow, after all.

Still, that didn’t excuse the sheer ridiculousness of the Menace’s plot. “There are no potions that do that. Potions are a myth, and the ones Medea used even more so. I wouldn’t know how to make them anyway. And the rest of your idea is stupid, too. There’s no way you can get into the palace without tripping some kind of trap—haven’t you heard the stories? Would be assassins trying to get in are teleported into the Liber River to drown?”

Death shook his head. “Anyway, the Sorcerer King, as you insist on naming him, is the previous king’s firstborn child. He didn’t conquer the country, he inherited it. You can’t attack the rightful ruler of a country, especially when he’s done nothing wrong.”

The Menace scowled at Death, as though making faces would somehow convince the deity that his idea was a good idea, never mind a feasible plan of action. “He’s a magic user. Magic always involves sacrifice, and magic strong enough to teleport someone somewhere a few hundred miles down the road has to involve a major sacrifice, like human sacrifice kind of major. That’s why we have to defeat him—he’s probably killing his own citizens to power it! He’ probably killed the old king just to jumpstart it!”

“The old king died of a heart attack. He was in his eighties. It was in the news.” Death said slowly, trying to explain in small words all the issues with that last statement. If he used simple vocabulary, it’d be easier for the Menace to understand, right? If Death phrased the truth in a way that even children could understand, surely the Menace would understand, wouldn't he?

“That was the cover story. Of course, the new tyrannical king wouldn’t want anyone to know that he killed the old king.”

“I can’t believe I’m indulging your insane troll logic. Why would he kill his own father?” Death took a deep breath, kneading his temples with a fist. The whole conversation was like the conversational equivalent of watching one of those new high-speed Magitek trains crash. It was so horrifying, that it was impossible to give it anything less than his full attention.

“That’s all part of the cover story. He’s killed the rightful prince and taken his place so that nobody will question his right to rule. Magic that takes human sacrifice could make him look like the dead prince easily.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding a lot. I mean, firstly, magic doesn’t work like that. The sacrifice thing is just an urban legend. Second, if you think that the Crown Princess couldn’t recognize her own dad, you’ve got to be delusional. Third, your conspiracy theories don’t change the fact that you can’t get into the palace with malicious intent. So, waltzing in there with a sword is out of the question.”

“No.” Death held up a hand before the Menace could spout anymore nonsense. “I’m not helping you. I will catch a bus to the Liber River and meet up with you there when you inevitably get drop-kicked out the palace doors by magic. I refuse to be party to treason.”

Not that it would be treason, since Death was a god and beholden to nobody, especially not a tiny country far to the northwest of the Fields where his domain was located. Still, Death turned and walked away from the Menace, teleporting himself to Liber Lake as soon as he was out of sight of the Menace.

He didn’t bother stripping out of his clothes, just waded into the water and allowed the familiar current to drag him down into his brother’s Station.

Nebula Waypoint was beautiful as always—white marble and dark wood, golden arches and stained-glass windows. The air was tinted blue from the clear water the Station was submerged in, and it’s warm, so much warmer than the Fields. Life’s Garden was the warmest of course—balmy, not-quite-hot, and faintly humid. The sugar sweet perfumed air was the only reason the immediate association for the weather there wasn’t the spray of cooling blood.

In the Station, visitors and occupants alike breathed in water. It tastes like ocean air, salty and refreshing. Death paused for a second, just breathing it in, then turned and hurried up to the second floor. Balance was sitting on his bed there, flipping through a book. He turned to look at his visitor, a smile already on his face.

“Death!” Balance called, waving a hand cheerfully. “How are you doing? How’s the babysitting going?” He had an impish grin on his face, clearly expecting the answer he received even as he asked the question.

Death groaned, dragging a hand through his hair and then stalking over to flop onto his sibling’s lap. “Terrible,” his voice was muffled, and he could feel Balance starting to shake with laughter. “Shut up. I didn’t realize it would be this bad.”

Balance put aside his book and then started rubbing Death’s back. “I tried to warn you. The Menace is always more trouble than he’s worth, only partially because he doesn’t have the good sense our predecessors gave rocks.”

“Tell me about it,” Death grumbled. There was a pause as Balance pressed the heel of his hand against a knot in Death’s back, and Death exhaled in relief as the tension went away. “You know what he tried to do? He tried—well, is trying, I suppose, because he hasn’t given up yet—but he’s trying to kill the current king of Hygeia. Because he thinks that the king is a Sorcerer King.”

Balance stopped rubbing Death’s back. “What?”

“I know! I swear, it’s like he thinks he’s in some kind of video game, where you have to fight a bunch of mini bosses to level up enough to beat the final boss. Except he thinks I’m the final boss, and he’s trying to go after standard fantasy RPG questlines as his mini bosses. He attacked an ogre camp at the start, and while he didn’t say it out loud, I’m pretty sure that he was trying to use that as his tutorial fight.” Death waved a hand expressively, trying to convey the sheer ridiculousness of the Menace’s actions.

Balance leaned out of the way of the looping hand gesture and stared down at his older brother. “What does he think he’s doing? Heroes, even ignoring how spectacularly unhelpful they generally are, usually are trying to save people. How does potentially kicking off a civil war of succession save anybody?”

“I don’t know!” Death pushed himself upright. “I’m not sure he’s thinking anything through. Again, it’s like he’s operating on video game logic, wherein the hero is always right even if they waltz in and kill a perfectly good king. Consequences like starting wars or getting an angry ogre tribe to kill everyone in a hundred-mile radius don’t exist, because that would detract from this grand idea that he’s a hero and can do no wrong. I can’t even tell him to cut it out because he thinks I’m his cowardly squire. I can’t compromise that image of me without tipping him off to the fact that I’m leading him somewhere. The last thing I need is for him to try and pick a real fight with me and force me to use my power against him.”

Balance hummed in agreement. “He doesn’t need magic to be dangerous, and you can’t fight back without killing every living thing for miles. On top of that, we need him in mostly pristine shape when he gets to the Garden, or the empowerment won’t work, and we desperately need it to.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Death huffed a tired breath and slumped again.

There was a moment of silence, Balance fiddling with his book thoughtfully as Death basked in his brother’s presence and the pointed lack of the Menace’s. Then Balance spoke up again. “So, what is the Menace doing right now? Aside from getting in trouble with the gate guards on the palace, of course.”

Death shrugged. “Who knows?” he grumbled. “…I should probably check up on him, make sure he hasn’t gotten some guard so mad that the Menace gets himself cursed. Or stabbed. Or something.”

Despite saying that, Death made absolutely no motion to move.

Balance patted him on the back sympathetically, understanding the urge to remain far, far away from the Menace. Then he shoved his older brother off the bed and onto the ground. “Go do that,” he said cheerfully, completely ignoring Death’s pained yelp. “I’m not touching that Menace with a ten-foot-pole, but he’s probably gotten himself arrested and you’ll need to convince them to let the Menace go. Since you can’t use any of your power outside of the Fields, the Station, or the Garden without killing everything around you, I’ll help…convince them, shall we say, that they should release the Menace to your custody.”

“Gee, thanks,” Death grouched, rubbing his head gingerly.

***

Death watched the Menace go haring off towards Mount Marfach. He followed afterwards, reluctant to get moving at a fast pace. He kind of wished that the Menace had explained his original plan before discarding it so quickly. It was a moot point now that they were finally headed towards Life’s Garden, but he had no idea what harebrained scheme the Menace had come up with. Not knowing what it had been made him nervous. Who knew what the Menace would do if he decided to go with the original plan or one of the interim plans he’d made and subsequently abandoned?

It sounded like he’d originally intended to fight through a procession of increasingly difficult challenges, akin to completing the different stages of a video game or possibly like doing his own version of Hercules’ Twelve Labors.

Then after he’d found out that Balance had gone to Life’s Garden to hide from him, he’d decided briefly to go back to the Fields of Asphodel—and Death thanked his lucky stars that he’d managed to convince the Menace that that was a terrible idea. Herding him towards Life’s Garden was hard enough with the constant distractions. They didn’t need to turn around go in the opposite direction—to fight Death.

Now they were…going to bug Life for help? Or something?

Really, it probably wasn’t important, since they were finally headed in the right direction, but still. Death was tired of herding the Menace and keeping him on track without making it look like he was being herded. He really didn’t want to have to drag the Menace towards Mount Marfach because somebody decided there was a necessary side-quest to complete.

Shoulders slumping at the indignant, if unintelligible, shout from up ahead, Death picked up the pace a little, hoping that the Menace was just telling him to walk faster and that it wasn’t a sign that the Menace had been waving his sword around and accidentally stabbed a tree. Again. And needed help getting his sword out of the trunk. Again.

***

Death strolled along the paths to his sister’s innermost grove. He looked up and waved at his siblings. Balance waved back from his seat on the bench and Life gave him a terse nod as she continued pacing. Death sat next to Balance, tucking an arm around his brother.

“Here’s the moment of truth,” Balance murmured, glancing up at the slightly taller deity.

“It’ll go well,” Death said calmly. “The Menace dropped his sword in the maze. He won’t be able to attack us once we start the empowerment.”

“You mean he won’t be able to attack us with the sword,” Balance corrected. “That doesn’t mean that he can’t attack us any other way. He doesn’t need a weapon or magic to be dangerous.”

Death hummed, conceding the point.

The Garden went silent, its occupants hushing as the heaving human murderer stumbled into the clearing. The Menace walked closer to Life, trying futilely to straighten himself. Death curled his lip unconsciously. He had to sleep in close quarters to the Menace enough times to know just how strong the Menace’s attraction to Life was.

And he’d seen the aftermath of just how deadly that attraction was.

The Menace cleared his throat and addressed Life. “Hello, goddess of Life! I am the Champion your brother chose to defeat Death! I apologize for the invasion of your home, but I am in dire need of your assistance. Recently, I attempted to visit my patron god, Justice, in his home and found it empty. The water there was cold and dead, and I can only assume the worst. Death has captured Justice. I need you to help me find him, so that I know where Death is and whether I should rescue or avenge my patron god.”

Life did not move for a long moment. Then she straightened from her slouch against the trunk. “Come here.” Her voice was clear and sweet, but there was a surprisingly hard bite of anger to it.

Death smiled slowly as the Menace foolishly walked closer to Life, allowing her to rest her hands on his temples, to feed her power into his body. Balance stood, stepped out of the grove of apple trees into the Menace’s field of view, and Death followed his younger brother.

The Menace’s eyes widened with confusion, with pain, but it was too late. The empowering had begun.

Within seconds, the Menace was converted into a tree—one bearing the much-needed Apples of Discord. Balance sighed in audible relief as the empowering’s first and most fragile stage finished.

Death stepped closer, tugging at one of the golden Apples then tossing it to Ladon as hungry dragon crept closer. Ladon snapped it up straight out of the air and swallowed it in one gulp. Immediately, the anxiety Death had been feeling ebbed away as he watched Ladon feed on the fruit-shaped manifestation of the god-killer’s life force.

Centuries ago, a mortal dared to challenge the old gods to a fight. The megalomaniacal mortal who called himself “Fate” claimed that it was his destiny to overthrow the gods and establish himself as the new ruler of the world. The pantheons had been slaughtered, from Zeus to Hestia, Thor to Hel, Izanagi to Konohanasakuya-hime.

The only survivors had been the then infantile Death, Balance, and Life. They had waited until they were older, not daring to challenge the god-killer until they were older, stronger, wiser.

They’d been found out eventually, before they were ready, but they’d survived. Part of that was the god-killer’s fascination with Life, as he’d been fascinated with all the other pretty goddesses. It had ended with those other goddesses dead at his feet, dead in his bed. Life’s saving grace was that for all her beauty, for all her technical status as a goddess of birth and new life, she was also a goddess of war and strife and struggle. The god-killer made the mistake of trying to play around with a killer goddess. He hadn’t made that mistake with Athena, goddess of war, or Artemis, goddess of the hunt.

Life had crafted her flightless dragon Ladon out of desperation, and he had fought the god-killer alongside Life. They had held off the increasingly furious Menace just long enough for Death and Balance to get the drop on him.

They’d ripped out all of Fate’s strength, all his magic, all the power he’d cannibalized from the corpses of his divine victims. They’d sealed Fate’s stolen powers inside Ladon’s stomach, chaining away the most immediately dangerous parts of the god-killer.

However, they hadn’t gotten everything. Fate had, after all, devoured 271 death gods of varying origin and taken their power for his own.

Even though they’d managed to seal away his power inside Ladon’s stomach, Fate’s soul escaped them and set itself to reincarnating. Coming back to life every once in a while, just to try again to steal his powers back, even though, his reincarnations didn’t even know what it was they were searching for.

This worked in the favor of the siblings. When Fate incarnated, they could sacrifice his incarnation, transform his body into apple trees, and have his life force captured, and contained, and converted into golden apples—the Apples of Discord. Life had named them in the beginning, still bloody and furious and seconds away from ripping apart that first tree with her own two hands.

A fitting name, Death supposed, seeing as the god-killer had thrown the world into discord, if only because the world was peripherally aware that the old gods were dead.

Ladon’s seal was a tenuous thing, even after all this time. Repeated sacrifice of the god-killer’s life force empowered the seal, of course. It was the best result, because that stolen power knew the life force of its owner even if that life force was harvested from a different incarnation of the Menace.

Whenever their stock of Apples of Discord ran low, Life’s power sustained the seal, helped keep the bindings tight. To ensure that the seal would never come loose Life stayed in her Garden, guarding Ladon as he guarded Fate’s stolen power, protecting the Apples of Discord so that no one could ever steal away the precious fuel for the seal. If nothing else, her proximity to Ladon kept the poisonous pet alive indefinitely, even when he didn’t eat for extended periods of time.

“Brother,” Life said, and Death turned to her. Her spring-green eyes were bright. “Don’t worry about that menace. He won’t be going anywhere for a long time. We’ve more than enough Apples of Discord to last the seal a long time.”

Balance slung his arm around Death’s shoulder, and Death automatically stooped a little to make it easier on his younger brother. “Besides, you know how long it takes for the god-killer to regenerate enough power to reincarnate himself. He’ll be gone for a long time.” A pause, then Balance offered, almost uncertainly, “is it just me, or is it taking him longer and longer to come back each time?”

“I think so,” Death mumbled. “It took him a few centuries this time to come back, and the time before that I think it took barely two centuries to resurrect himself.”

Life looked viciously gleeful. “Let’s hope, then, that his stolen power is running out. He’s only mortal, after all, and he doesn’t regenerate power the way we do. Doesn’t breathe it, live it, isn’t made of it the way we are.”

Balance’s smile was delighted, vivid in its bloodthirsty joy. He’d never, Death noted, looked more like their sister than he did just then. “Guess somebody’s batteries are running a little low,” he said in a sing-song tone, lilting over the syllables mockingly.

Death offered his siblings a smile of his own. “Guess they are,” he said quietly.

If that was the case, then, well. For the first time in centuries, things were looking up.


End file.
